


Reaching Through the Dark

by Mithrigil



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Blindness, Gen, Injury Recovery, Jedi Training, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, Team as Family, gradually getting one's shit together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanan has a new...perspective, after Malachor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching Through the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This may get jossed in season 3, but I _needed_ to write the Spectres helping Kanan get around. And make people cry. Because I'm at least as sadistic as Chopper.

Kanan wakes with no sense of time or place. Reorienting himself in the dark is a matter of Force and hope first, logistics second. If his boots aren’t exactly where he left them, he can’t even guess where they’ve gone, to say nothing of his armor, to say nothing of his _hairties_ , which no one else on the crew needs but they keep turning up missing anyway. And everything takes twice as long as it should, except falling down.

When he thinks about it like that, being blind is a lot like being drunk. He’s got a lot of experience with the latter. The former, well, that’s more experience every day.

The Rebellion isn’t exactly a bastion of medical resources, but even if it was, the doctors say, there’s nothing for it. Laserburns are laserburns, and Maul didn’t just slice Kanan’s eyes: he charred them down to the optic nerve. The scar tissue and blistering have swollen the sockets beyond repair. Even if there were prosthetics available, the surgical installation would be so delicate and complicated and potentially brain-damaging that Kanan can’t help but think those resources are better spent elsewhere. Like tracking Maul down. Or confirming Ahsoka’s status.

So he gets up, this morning the same as the last, and finds his boots based on their relative position to his bunk, and goes on living.

*

Using the Force to find his way around is a little like having a fuel leak. Maybe the Ghost feels this way out in space. Kanan can sense life, follow sound and scent and Force signature, but that doesn’t keep obstacles out of his path. Like Chopper, in sleep mode outside, presumably, Sabine’s room.

“Sorry Kanan!”

Yes, definitely Sabine’s room. That’s her voice, louder than it needs to be, over the sounds of a datapad discharging what sounds like a very important objective. “It’s fine,” he tells her, as reassuringly as he can. He didn’t trip, and didn’t stub his toe this time. Small mercies. “What time is it?”

“Almost the start of second shift, so don’t worry, you’re right on time. Can you stay there a minute?”

“Sure.” He holds to the wall, feels the Ghost, not quite adrift but not quite on course either. And he nudges Chopper with his toe again, just to make sure that the droid is, in fact, asleep.

Well, whether he was or not, he’s up now. And cursing a blue streak in binary.

“That’s colorful,” Sabine says, wryly, and Kanan can picture her smirk. “Chopper, activate Protocol K-9.”

Something bar-like extends from Chopper’s general direction and pokes Kanan in the hip. It’s about the size of a blaster stock, or--Kanan guesses--a crutch or cane. Like Master Yoda’s walking stick. Except, by the vibrations, still attached to Chopper.

Chopper whirrs something grudging and derisive. Kanan takes ahold of the handle anyway. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yup. Seeing-eye droid,” Sabine says, altogether too cheerful. “Believe it or not, it was his idea. I just installed the hardware. I’ll program whatever adjustments you need, okay? He _promised_ to be less of a jerk when this program’s running, but--”

“I trust him,” Kanan says, and stoops to pat Chopper on the dome. “Thanks, Chopper.”

Chopper, predictably, says something crass.

“And stop by again later,” Sabine adds. “I’ve got a couple ideas on how to fix your comm.”

“You got it.”

*

He settles into the co-pilot’s seat out of habit. Hera reaches over from her side, folds her hand around his wrist.

“Still choosing my replacement?” he asks, trying to keep as much humor in his tone as possible.

Hera doesn’t quite laugh, but at least Kanan can tell she isn’t _too_ put out. “Still torn,” she says. “Sabine’s too much use as a gunner, but Zeb’s hands are too big.”

“And Ezra’s got too much else to deal with,” Kanan agrees.

“ _And_ he’d be insufferable for weeks.” Hera taps her fingers on Kanan’s arm, but doesn’t pull away. “More than usual.”

Stars above, Kanan misses her smile. He can feel it through the Force, and hear it in her tone, but there’s still a part of him that wants to see her light up. The bright living green of her eyes. The tarnished blush of her cheeks.

_I’ll see you again,_ he’d said, before Malachor. A Jedi lie.

“I guess it’s a question of whose slack I can pick up,” he says, to keep himself from chugging on down _that_ train of thought. “It’s not like I’m much use as a gunner either.”

“About that.” She strokes her fingers up his sleeve, more idle than solicitous, but still completely welcome. “Rex told me what you did on Seelos. That you navigated them through a sandstorm.”

Kanan shakes his head. “That only worked because Kallus couldn’t see us either. I’m only less blind when the lights go out. Figuratively.”

“That’s still true in space, though. No one is actually looking at the battlefield, except a Jedi. And if there were an Inquisitor at the battle you wouldn’t want to be on co-pilot duty anyway.”

“...True.”

“So here’s my proposal,” she says, and swivels his chair toward hers so she can reach him with both hands. “I’ll promote Sabine, and Ezra takes over as lead gunner. And you’ll be his spotter.”

Kanan can’t help the immediate surge of _impossible_ welling up in him, or stop the resigned sigh that follows it. But those are just instinct. He knows, or at least he’s capable of convincing himself, that this could work. “It’ll take time.”

“I know.” She cups his cheeks, thumbs tracing just under the edge of his blindfold. “But I also know you’ll make it happen.”

*

By all reports, the new base is shaping up well. The sensors are ostensibly keeping the local fauna at bay--absolutely no one wants a repeat of the besieging bug incident--and no one’s detected them thus far. And even this time of night, the weather is pleasant enough for Kanan to drill outside.

Zeb is only slightly less vindictive than Chopper. Kanan deflects every single blaster shot, though there are a couple of near-misses and at least five eruptions of native Lasat expletives, which means Kanan’s doing well.

Too well.

“Don’t go easy on me,” Kanan warns, pulling into a guard stance. “I’ve been doing this since I was younger than Ezra.”

“I’m not,” Zeb says, and his honesty rings as true as his aim.

“...Oh.”

“You want me to get Sabine down here too? She’s got a couple new things she wants to try.”

It really is that simple for Zeb, isn’t it. To take what’s happened, note it down, and keep moving forward.

Kanan nods, and Zeb tells him to wait a tick and pads off, and--

Kanan deflects another two shots in quick succession. Zeb’s laughter rings out from the loading ramp. “Told you I wasn’t going easy on you,” he says, and fires one more shot, then disappears into the Ghost.

Kanan’s still smiling when Zeb and Sabine--and Rex, ha--renew their assault.

*

“You’re late, Master,” Ezra whines. Kanan’s quick consultation with the Force places Ezra upside-down in the cargo hold--his hands leave a different signature than his feet--and he’s steadier than he was but somehow tenser all through. It makes sense in Kanan’s head, anyway.

If they don’t talk about Malachor soon, it’s going to get worse, but it doesn’t take a Jedi to tell Ezra’s definitely not ready.

“I know.” Kanan sweeps his heel across the floor in front of him to make sure it’s clear enough for both of them, then sits down for meditation. “Come down here.”

Ezra scrapes and scrambles his way over, then sits across from Kanan. His breathing is thicker, slower, softer. He matches his pace to Kanan’s perfectly. Good habits setting in: Kanan can’t help a twinge of pride from rippling through the Force between them. Ezra’s answering signal is predictably smug.

For a span of long minutes, there is nothing but oneness, the light of the Force expanding his consciousness to the galaxy. Ezra’s there with him, a presence behind and beside. Seeking. 

“Can you show me what it’s like?” Ezra asks, tentatively. That’s real, but also meditation: his voice is threaded with his Force signature, warm but sharp, like prickling fur.

Kanan’s heart surges. “Yes. I’d...hoped you would ask. Relax your shields,” he adds quickly, letting the teaching instinct take over.

Ezra complies, as best he can. There’s still fear in him, of course: the perpetual grit of abandonment, new threads of apology after Malachor, the knot of self-recrimination that’s been gathering since Empire Day. But Ezra still opens his mind to Kanan, and Kanan rewards that trust in kind.

He impresses the pain first; the weight of his blindfold and its pressure on his scars. Ezra’s presence flickers, but doesn’t retreat, so Kanan peels another layer back, lets Ezra feel his disorientation. His frustration, at not being able to teach Ezra properly, worse now since there’s so much they both have to learn. The feeling of second-guessing his way through life, never sure of his footing or his place, and the knowledge that without the Force he might not ever feel connected again. After that, the floodgates open: his apprehensiveness about his usefulness to the family, his anger at not being strong enough, the raw fear of falling into a bottle again and losing everything he’s worked for. And the _loss_ most of all, strongest of all; never seeing Hera’s smile again, or Zeb’s canny tricks, or Sabine’s art, or Ezra’s progress.

A sob chokes out of Ezra’s throat, and his weight settles against Kanan’s chest. He hasn’t retreated from Ezra’s mind at all and the wave of guilt hits him before Ezra’s tears, in the unarmored crook of Kanan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, Master.”

Kanan holds him close, his palms to Ezra’s back. “I don’t blame you at all.”

He’s literally incapable of crying; the tears have nowhere to fall, no path to follow. But if they could, they’d have permission, and Kanan shares that relief with Ezra, lets it comfort them both.

***


End file.
